Diplomatic Immunity

by Grant Sutherland

  “Musta got tired listening to you guys bitch,” Mike says.

  The guard laughs, then withdraws. His butt is covered. He has informed his boss.

  Mike turns to me. “So, has Patrick gone to do his stuff with Lemtov?”

  I press my lips together. I shake my head and explain that we got the nature of Patrick’s connection to Lemtov totally wrong. Mike is skeptical, but I am pretty sure Patrick has told me the truth this time. Now he is just going to keep his head down, wait for Rachel to be taken into custody by the NYPD, and see how it pans out. What he is not going to do is act precipitously. And he is not going to do what we’d hoped. He is not going to make Lemtov run.

  “Well, Weyland and Rachel won’t be able to give everyone the runaround for too long,” Mike warns me. “You wanna make Lemtov bolt, you got twenty or thirty minutes max.”

  He leads me back to the open doorway of the Surveillance Room where we stand a moment, watching the bank of black-and-white screens. What in the name of God are we going to do now? I wonder.

  On the top left monitor, Weyland and Rachel are ambling through the basement corridor. They look like Mike told them to look, as if they are just stretching their legs.

  On the large central monitor the Security Council sits in session, Lady Nicola presiding. Lemtov, arms folded, not a care in the world, is seated behind his ambassador. Froissart, the French ambassador, is reading a statement, presumably something about the incident in West Papua. Then I notice that poisonous little man the Tunku hovering with his delegation in the “interested parties” seats, waiting to give the world the benefit of his opinion on the big question of the day. At the sight of him the muscles across my shoulders bunch tight.

  The next screen down, the General Assembly Hall, is filled with a picture of NGO representatives.

  How? I think desperately.

  Beside me Mike cracks his knuckles. Then with no conscious effort I find my eyes focusing on the General Assembly screen. On the NGO representatives. And then on the representative in the back row with the white suit, the sunken face, and the goatee.

  Juan.

  Then I say it, a low whisper of desperate hope. “Juan.”

  “Hi,” he says when he emerges from the General Assembly Hall. Though smiling, Juan is clearly puzzled to find that I am the guy who sent the guard in to fetch him. He cocks his head. “So what’s happening with Rachel?”

  Taking him firmly by the elbow, I lead him away from the guards.

  “Hey,” he says, jerking his arm free. “What’s going on?”

  My instinct is to grab his lapel and haul him after me. Instead, I lower my voice and explain the situation as succinctly and as urgently as I can. “I want you to come with me to the Security Council Chamber, Juan. I’ll explain why on the way. But if you don’t come with me right now, Rachel’s going to be charged with Hatanaka’s murder.”

  He pulls a face. Say what?

  “And the way things stand, she has every chance of being convicted. Now, are you coming with me?”

  Mouth open, he hesitates, and then nods. Turning together, we jog to the escalators.

  “You’ve got an in with the Tunku?”

  “I wouldn’t call it an in,” Juan says.

  “Whatever. He thinks you’re one of his big buddies this session.”

  Juan rolls his eyes at the thought of it.

  “So he won’t think it’s strange,” I say, mounting the escalator, talking over my shoulder, “when you go running to him with some rumor you just picked up. Something you’re wondering if he can confirm.”

  “That’s what I’m doing?”

  That’s what you’re doing, I tell him.

  Juan considers a second, then nods again. He doesn’t have a problem with that. “So what’s the rumor?”

  “Rachel’s been released,” I say. “And the UN guards are about to arrest the guy who really murdered Toshio.”

  Juan’s head goes back. “Jesus,” he says. “The Tunku?”

  I am silenced momentarily by the misunderstanding. Then, stepping off the escalator, I tell him no. Not the Tunku. “But he’ll pass the rumor on.”

  “Ah,” Juan says. I can see he doesn’t really get it. Then, as we approach the Security Council Chamber, he asks, “Why don’t I go straight to this guy, the one you wanna tell?”

  “Because you can’t reach him. The Tunku can.”

  He turns it over. He still doesn’t get it.

  I stop him outside the Security Council Chamber door. “Your story is you’ve picked up the rumor from a pal. Some guy in one of the NGOs.”

  “Amnesty?” Juan suggests. Amnesty International, keeper of the flame of human rights.

  “Perfect,” I tell him. “You knew the Tunku had an interest in the whole business through the Headquarters Committee. Now you’re just asking him if he can confirm the rumor.”

  “This rumor. It’s not true, right?”

  If only. When I shake my head, Juan hesitates.

  And for a moment I have an awful vision. A vision of myself at Juan’s age being approached by Harry Bright, the deputy prosecuting attorney in the D.A.’s office, a decent man of some twenty-five years’ experience who requested that I discreetly bury a file. He would not tell me why. And I—stiff-necked, youthfully self-righteous, and a complete innocent in the hardball political game being played in the office—I would not do it. Reciting my principles, I refused Harry Bright’s request. Two weeks later the contents of the file, a case Harry had handled poorly decades earlier, became the ammunition used to destroy his career.

  And now suddenly I am Harry Bright. Only it is not a file I want buried, it is a lie I want told. And it is not my career on the line but my daughter’s life.

  “This helps Rachel?”

  This helps Rachel, I tell Juan evenly.

  He thinks some more. Finally shrugs. “Sounds cool.”

  Relief buffets me like a swirling gust of wind. I squeeze Juan’s shoulder. He nods and turns to the door, and I wait just long enough to watch him enter the Security Council before I back away and turn. And then I run.

  “What’s happened?” I whisper, blowing hard as I careen to a halt by Mike, who still stands in the doorway of the Surveillance Room. He is watching the screens over the heads of the seated guards.

  In the Security Council, Chou En is speaking; the others at the horseshoe table have their earphones on for the translation. At the bottom of the screen I can make out Juan’s white suit; he is in the middle of the Malaysian delegation. A few heads are leaning toward him, apparently listening to what he has to say.

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  Screen five, says Mike.

  I locate the screen. Weyland and Rachel, well clear of the basement room in which she was being held, are sitting near the stairs. While I watch, Rachel gets up and speaks to Weyland. Weyland rises, and the two of them disappear together into a side room.

  Up here in Surveillance a phone rings. The guard who answers it swivels in his chair and holds the handpiece out. “The guardhouse,” he tells Mike. “Again.”

  The guardhouse. Where Jennifer and the Homicide people are waiting for Rachel.

  Mike takes the phone. “Yeah?” He looks at me while he talks, his expression grim. “Yeah, yeah. We’re doing it. Just give us a little time. Okay—I don’t care what they’re telling you. This is me, Jardine, I’m telling you. Wait. Yeah. Ten minutes.” He hangs up.

  “Ten minutes?” I whisper.

  “If we’re lucky,” he mutters beneath his breath.

  Then one of the guards at the console points to the Council screen. He wonders aloud what the problem is. Peering closer, I see one of the Malaysian delegates go bounding up the stairs, exiting the Council Chamber. Not the Tunku but one of his young offsiders.

  “Keep an eye on him,” Mike tells the guard. There is no hint that this is anything more than a routine request. Then Mike backs into the hall, drawing me after him. “The guardhouse has called three times now,” h
e whispers. “They’ll give it ten minutes. After that they’ll go over my head, call Eckhardt.”

  I make a face. Mike’s boss will turn out all of UN Security, if necessary, to carry out his orders. And his orders will be those from the UNHQ Committee: Deliver Rachel up to NYPD Homicide. If this gets to Eckhardt, we are screwed.

  Mike goes back to stand in the open doorway, arms folded. He chews the fat with the guards at the monitors like nothing out of the ordinary is going on, but the guards are obviously growing uneasy. They tell Mike that Weyland and Rachel have not reemerged from the basement side room into which they disappeared, out of sight of the security cameras. And a minute later, when the young Malaysian exits the elevator into the basement corridor, they speculate with real concern on what he is doing down there.

  Mike repeats his relaxed instruction to just keep an eye on the guy.

  “He’s heading for that room,” one guard says. Basement Room B29, he means, where Rachel was being held. The room Weyland and Rachel vacated just minutes ago. I ease myself into the doorway beside Mike and watch the screens.

  The Malaysian halts outside Basement Room B29. He knocks on the door and waits.

  “They went for a walk,” one of the guards up here mutters.

  On the screen, the Malaysian opens the door and puts his head in. Then he goes right into the room, disappearing from the screen.

  The tall guard twists in his chair, addressing Mike. “What’s his game, sticking his nose in there? You want I get someone down there?”

  “Wait,” Mike tells him.

  The guard darts a glance at me, then turns back to the screen.

  Within seconds the Malaysian reappears. He is not jogging this time; he sprints down the corridor to the elevators, arms and legs pumping. Mike makes a sound.

  I close my eyes, almost sick with relief.

  “You got nothing yet,” Mike warns me quietly.

  The surveillance guards are talking now, speculating about the Malaysian, what he was looking for, whether there is any connection with Weyland and Rachel’s timely stroll. They know that something is not right. One of them suggests sending a guard to fetch Weyland and Rachel. Mike overrules the suggestion, telling them to wait.

  Two minutes later the Malaysian messenger boy arrives back in the Security Council Chamber. He hurries down the steps and rejoins his delegation. The heads all lean toward him. Juan, I notice, is still there.

  Beneath his breath Mike says, “Yada, yada, yada, the girl’s been released. Now over to Lemtov.”

  But it does not happen that quickly. The Malaysians appear to discuss the news for a while among themselves; the Tunku keeps turning to Juan, whose replies are punctuated by emphatic nods and a flurry of hand-waving.

  My nerves, already stretched taut, begin to sing. Get up, I think, willing it through the screen as I focus on the Tunku. Get up, for chrissake. Walk over to the Security Council table. Tell Lemtov. Get up. Tell him Rachel’s been released. Tell him his own head’s on the line. But the Malaysians continue their discussions as though they have all the time in the world.

  I cheat a glance at the screen where I last saw Rachel and Weyland. Nothing. They have stayed sitting tight in the basement side room.

  At last the Tunku rises. He shuffles past the other members of his delegation and crosses the open expanse of floor to the Security Council table. He crouches behind Lemtov. And Lemtov very casually leans back and listens as the Tunku whispers in his ear.

  Now run, I think. Make your excuses and go.

  For a moment that’s what seems to be happening. His news passed, the Tunku retreats to his own delegation while Lemtov leans forward and has a quiet word with the Russian ambassador. Then Lemtov stands and steps away from the horseshoe table, but instead of heading for the exit, he goes to where the British are seated behind Lady Nicola.

  “The fuck?” murmurs Mike.

  I, too, am adrift. Lemtov crouches to speak with one of the Brits. After hearing Lemtov out, the Brit goes forward to have a quiet word with Lady Nicola. Almost immediately she turns and addresses the whole Council, cutting Chou En off mid-flow. When the perm five ambassadors all rise as one, I finally understand it: Lemtov has requested a private session in the Security Council side chamber.

  “Oh, shit,” I say. “No.”

  Mike shoots me a severe look.

  Now Lemtov and the other deputies follow their ambassadors out of the main chamber. Mike points to another screen. Another camera picks up Lemtov and the rest of them filing through the door into the side chamber, then the door swings closed at their backs. Guards take up position to either side.

  Mike grunts and looks at me from the corner of his eye.

  Appalled, I stare up at the screen, at the closed side-chamber door. Maybe Lemtov is just stalling, I think. Maybe he is trying to figure it out. Maybe in fifteen minutes he will emerge from the side chamber and head straight for the exit. But in fifteen minutes Rachel will be in the hands of NYPD Homicide. If Lemtov runs in fifteen minutes, it will already be too late.

  Here in the Surveillance Room the phone rings. The senior guard answers it again, and this time he sits up straight. “Sir,” he says, then hands the phone to Mike. While Mike hangs his head and listens, the senior guard galvanizes his colleagues at the monitors. He wants to know which guards they have free in the Assembly building. He tells them that the order from Eckhardt is to get the girl over to the guardhouse at once.

  My throat feels clotted. Mike hangs up the phone, then draws me out into the hallway. “Eckhardt,” he says, frowning. “So wild he’s just about busting a gut.”

  “Just five more minutes, Mike.”

  Mike jerks his thumb back toward the Surveillance Room. “Eckhardt’s given these guys a direct order. You can’t stop it. I can’t stop it. She’s gonna be handed over.”

  “No.”

  Mike lowers his head; he can’t bear to look at me. “Jesus,” he says.

  Fear has dried my throat, I have to swallow before I speak. “Give me your two-way.”

  Mike lifts his head. “What?”

  Reaching, I yank the two-way off his belt. “Go get yourself another one,” I tell him with quiet urgency. I point to the Surveillance Room. “You stay here. Tell me what’s happening. Just keep me and Rachel away from the guards.”

  “You and Rachel?” Mike screws up his face when it registers what I’m asking him to do. “Christ. You think they won’t catch you?”

  “Look, tell Eckhardt about the FBI report. Try to hold him off. Lemtov’s just buying time. When he figures it out, he’ll run.”

  “Says you.”

  We look at each other. Urgent voices rise in the Surveillance Room, everyone calling in the spare guards around the building.

  “Fucking mental,” says Mike, shaking his head. Then he points to the two-way in my hand. “Reset it to three one one,” he instructs me, backing away. “And you don’t speak to me on it. You just listen. Go on.” Turning in to his office to find himself another two-way, he shouts back over his shoulder, “Go!”

  38

  “DID IT WORK?”RACHEL ASKS THE MOMENT SHE SEES me.

  She and Weyland have been sitting on the floor, their backs to the wall. They both scramble to their feet as I tell Rachel no, that it has not worked as we planned. She lets out a moan.

  “But it still might,” I add quickly. “We just need some more time.” I point to Weyland. “Some guards are coming down to get Rachel in about two minutes. She can’t be here when they arrive.”

  He doesn’t say a word, just thinks a moment, then nods. When I explain what I want him to do, he considers that a moment too. He can see it makes sense, the only way he can help us and not lose his job, and he nods again.

  I beckon Rachel over to me by the door and take her hand; our palms are filmed with sweat. Then Weyland comes and touches Rachel’s arm and smiles his encouragement. He tells her she is going to be okay, but when she tries to smile back, her eyes are wide with fear. Weyla
nd gestures to the door; he is ready.

  “You set?” I ask Rachel.

  She stares at the door blankly. When I squeeze her hand, she nods, so I step up and pull back the door.

  Weyland takes three long strides, then launches himself out into the hall, arms spread out in a dramatic sprawl that looks just as it’s meant to look, as if I’ve caught him by surprise and delivered a mighty hit. But he has miscalculated the dive. He actually strikes the wall with his shoulder and cries out, an instinctive shout of real pain. Crumpling to the floor, he lies there, groaning.

  As we emerge into the corridor, Rachel hesitates, then bends over Weyland. I have to drag her up the stairs.

  Suddenly Mike’s panicked voice blurts out from the two-way, “If they keep going up those stairs, we’ve got them!”

  I pull Rachel to a jarring halt beside me. And we listen. There is no sound from above, from below us only Weyland’s soft groaning. We stand like two cornered animals, frozen.

  “Yeah.” Mike over the two-way. Watching us in the monitor as he talks to the Surveillance Room guards. “If they’d taken the elevator, they’d be clear.”

  “The elevator,” I say, dragging Rachel back down the stairs.

  Weyland, still stretched on the floor, holding his shoulder, looks up at us as we shoot past. He moans and rolls aside. Down the hall, we skid to a stop by the elevator. Rachel presses the button.

  “Which floor?”

  “Up,” I answer stupidly.

  Rachel giggles, the giggle rising in pitch, and I take her firmly by both shoulders. “Keep it together, Rache.”

  She looks back toward Weyland, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Keep it together,” I say again, shaking her. Bowing her head, she wipes a hand across her eyes.

  The elevator arrives, the doors open. Mike speaks over the two-way. “They stop on one, they’re history.”

  Suddenly guards come racing from the stairwell and into the passage behind us; they pause when they see Weyland sprawled on the floor. Pushing Rachel into the elevator, I hit the button for three. Out in the basement hall the guards shout and come running. I keep my thumb jammed on the button, cursing the doors. “Come on. Come on.”